something in his ear.
Maybe the name Icktopia is going to fit this island after all.
Clear Your Head of Googly-Eyed Puppies
On Monday morning, I’m late for gym because my mom forgot to put my ALLENCROFT HAS SPIRIT ! T-shirt in the dryer, and Mr. Garson won’t let us take gym in our regular clothes in case we sweat all over them and he gets blamed for stinking up the halls with us later. So there I was at 7:30 in the morning, drying my stupid SPIRIT shirt in my apartment building’s creepier-than-creepy laundry room, wa-ay down in the basement, where the spiders and the incinerator live. The laundry room is right next to the storage lockers, too, and the whole time my shirt was drying, it sounded like something in Mrs. Grungen’s locker was whispering to me. So I had to leave before my shirt was fully dry and now I’m running to gym class in a clammy shirt.
I did, however, make time to pop into Mrs. Patinkin’s empty classroom to make sure Devon brought Boris back safe and sound. There he was, sleeping in his food dish like an angel. Just as I blow him a kiss and turn to go, I spya photograph leaning against his cage for all to see. It’s a picture of Devon feeding Boris a bedtime bottle from an eyedropper. In her bed. And I’m not sure, but it looks like she’s singing to him.
No wonder the poor pig is so exhausted. Her creepy attentions probably gave him night terrors.
I burst through the doors to the main-floor hallway and find Annika Pruitt standing in front of Justin Rosetti’s locker, which is considered THE best locker in the school, right beside the snack machine and the pay phone that everyone except the teachers knows works without quarters.
I’m going to be totally late, but I cannot resist. I stop. “Annika, what’s up?”
She beams. “Hi, Zoë,” she sings. “How are you this morning?”
I ignore the question. It’s Monday, it’s not a holiday, and my shirt is probably growing mold. Besides, she really doesn’t look like she cares. I point to the locker’s open door. “What are you doing? Isn’t your locker upstairs?”
“No.” She bats her eyelashes, which are almost as long and thick and curly as her enormous hair. “ Justin popped the question over the weekend. ”
“What question?”
“He asked me to move in with him.”
Whoa. I open the locker door a bit farther and, sure enough, there is Annika’s flowered binder and beaded pencil case lined up beside Justin’s fat, markered cardboard binder—the one he ripped the green vinyl from so he could graffiti it better. One wall is wallpapered with lovesick puppies and Annika’s fringed hippie purse is hanging on a hook beside Justin’s hoodie.
Okay. It’s important that I handle this situation with tact. Annika can be overly sensitive, especially when it comes to Justin Rosetti. “Wow,” I say, nodding. “I love what you’ve done with the place.” I reach up to touch an orange tiedyed scarf taped to the locker door. “This must be your idea. You’ve always had seriously impeccable taste.”
She nods. “Yes. At first Justin was worried it might make the place too girlie, but I convinced him I needed to do something to balance all his manly energy.”
I look at Justin’s scratched-up Ozzy Osbourne stickers. “Good thinking. Listen, Annika, I know you’ve been against it in the past, and I didn’t push it because you and Justin hadn’t taken any serious steps toward this kind of permanence. But I wish you’d consulted me first. You really should have signed a prenup. ”
She looks shocked. “A prenup? I don’t want anything to come between me and Justin at a romantic time like this!”
“But it’s exactly what you need. Without a signed document that lists who gets what when you break up—”
“Justin and I will never break up! We’re going to get married one day and move to Australia, where we can live on the beach and I can make his dinner while he surfs! We don’t need any prenup!”
This
Maybe the name Icktopia is going to fit this island after all.
Clear Your Head of Googly-Eyed Puppies
On Monday morning, I’m late for gym because my mom forgot to put my ALLENCROFT HAS SPIRIT ! T-shirt in the dryer, and Mr. Garson won’t let us take gym in our regular clothes in case we sweat all over them and he gets blamed for stinking up the halls with us later. So there I was at 7:30 in the morning, drying my stupid SPIRIT shirt in my apartment building’s creepier-than-creepy laundry room, wa-ay down in the basement, where the spiders and the incinerator live. The laundry room is right next to the storage lockers, too, and the whole time my shirt was drying, it sounded like something in Mrs. Grungen’s locker was whispering to me. So I had to leave before my shirt was fully dry and now I’m running to gym class in a clammy shirt.
I did, however, make time to pop into Mrs. Patinkin’s empty classroom to make sure Devon brought Boris back safe and sound. There he was, sleeping in his food dish like an angel. Just as I blow him a kiss and turn to go, I spya photograph leaning against his cage for all to see. It’s a picture of Devon feeding Boris a bedtime bottle from an eyedropper. In her bed. And I’m not sure, but it looks like she’s singing to him.
No wonder the poor pig is so exhausted. Her creepy attentions probably gave him night terrors.
I burst through the doors to the main-floor hallway and find Annika Pruitt standing in front of Justin Rosetti’s locker, which is considered THE best locker in the school, right beside the snack machine and the pay phone that everyone except the teachers knows works without quarters.
I’m going to be totally late, but I cannot resist. I stop. “Annika, what’s up?”
She beams. “Hi, Zoë,” she sings. “How are you this morning?”
I ignore the question. It’s Monday, it’s not a holiday, and my shirt is probably growing mold. Besides, she really doesn’t look like she cares. I point to the locker’s open door. “What are you doing? Isn’t your locker upstairs?”
“No.” She bats her eyelashes, which are almost as long and thick and curly as her enormous hair. “ Justin popped the question over the weekend. ”
“What question?”
“He asked me to move in with him.”
Whoa. I open the locker door a bit farther and, sure enough, there is Annika’s flowered binder and beaded pencil case lined up beside Justin’s fat, markered cardboard binder—the one he ripped the green vinyl from so he could graffiti it better. One wall is wallpapered with lovesick puppies and Annika’s fringed hippie purse is hanging on a hook beside Justin’s hoodie.
Okay. It’s important that I handle this situation with tact. Annika can be overly sensitive, especially when it comes to Justin Rosetti. “Wow,” I say, nodding. “I love what you’ve done with the place.” I reach up to touch an orange tiedyed scarf taped to the locker door. “This must be your idea. You’ve always had seriously impeccable taste.”
She nods. “Yes. At first Justin was worried it might make the place too girlie, but I convinced him I needed to do something to balance all his manly energy.”
I look at Justin’s scratched-up Ozzy Osbourne stickers. “Good thinking. Listen, Annika, I know you’ve been against it in the past, and I didn’t push it because you and Justin hadn’t taken any serious steps toward this kind of permanence. But I wish you’d consulted me first. You really should have signed a prenup. ”
She looks shocked. “A prenup? I don’t want anything to come between me and Justin at a romantic time like this!”
“But it’s exactly what you need. Without a signed document that lists who gets what when you break up—”
“Justin and I will never break up! We’re going to get married one day and move to Australia, where we can live on the beach and I can make his dinner while he surfs! We don’t need any prenup!”
This
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